


everybody wants to rule the world

by kingsoftheimpossible



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Crushes, Growing Up Together, M/M, Quidditch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-11-28 07:32:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11413173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingsoftheimpossible/pseuds/kingsoftheimpossible
Summary: Sasha wipes his sweaty face on his robes, waiting irritably while Backstrom slowly gathers his school supplies so they can make their way up to dinner. “What about you? You just want to watch all the time, lazy?”Backstrom looks up from his collected books, carefully tucking one frizzy loose curl behind his ear. “No,” he says evenly, and Sasha will remember the little smile on his face, probably, forever. Will remember Backstrom’s next words as one of the defining moments of his own life- “I want to help.”A Hogwarts/Quidditch AU.





	1. Year 1

**Author's Note:**

> grains and grains and grains of salt. where are the brits if this is hogwarts? don't know. why is hogwarts full of russians and swedes? don't know. lots of other questions? don't know.
> 
> probably putting up a year every 1-2 weeks but Absolutely no promises. 
> 
> thanks to my nailbeds and my liv and JA for looking this over. it's not their fault i decided to start posting before it's actually finished.

_Well, well, well_ , the Sorting Hat says.

There are so many eyes on him. Sasha catches Zhenya’s where he’s already melted into the great mass of red and gold at the furthest table. He wants to sit with Zhenya, wants someone who understands him without the tinny translation enchantment getting in the way.

The Hat _hmmm_ ’s, shifting thoughtfully where it’s resting around his ears. _Gryffindor, you think? You’d certainly fit in._

Relief floods Sasha’s body so quickly he nearly starts shaking, fingers gripping the edges of the stool tightly. He waits for the Hat to yell like it had done for everyone else, but it just _hmmm_ ’s some more. It seemed like Zhenya wasn’t up here half so long.

 _You’d do well in Gryffindor,_ the Hat continues, and Sasha chews the inside of his cheek nervously, _but is that really what you want?_

 _I don’t know what I want,_ Sasha thinks a little desperately, though it isn’t true. His head floods with all the dreams he’s ever had- _hockey._ Winning. Giant silver cups with his name engraved. Love, love, love- everyone bursting with love for him, for what he can do, for who he is. His mama, watching from the crowd while confetti rains down and everyone chants his name-

 _Ah_ , the Hat says, pleased. Out loud, it yells, “Slytherin!”

The Hat’s pulled from Sasha’s head before he has a chance to ask what that means. Across the Hall, Zhenya is frowning at him, and Sasha shrugs helplessly, pasting on a smile as he turns to the cheering sea of green waiting for him.

 

* * *

 

 

Hogwarts takes some adjusting, what with coming from a non-magical family and a Russian one at that. Moving stairways, disappearing doors,  _magic_ , everywhere, all the time! And he's magic, too, somehow. There was a not-exactly-small part of him that expected to wave his wand on the first morning of classes only for nothing to happen except him being politely yet firmly instructed to pack his things and leave. 

But it works.

(Sort of. Mostly. He was meant to be lighting up the tip of his wand, not shooting a jet of flames halfway cross the room. The amused professor had assured him she had seen worse, and that it was actually quite an impressive display.)

The ghosts, though. 

The Bloody Baron doesn't speak, as far as Sasha can tell. Some of the other House Ghosts seem more approachable, but that doesn't help turn the twisting, rolling waves of uncomfortable curiosity in Sasha's stomach into askable questions. He spends weeks watching them float among the students at meals, in the hallways between lessons, through the shelves in the library, and he can't do anything but  _wonder_. 

In the end, it's Zhenya who uncomfortably approaches the Slytherin table after dinner a few weeks into term, sliding his awkward tangle of limbs onto the bench beside Sasha and staying quiet for a few moments while Sasha does his best to pretend he hasn't spent another meal just watching the Bloody Baron clank around the far end of the table.

"You haven't been eating," Zhenya accuses softly, nudging Sasha's nearly-full plate with his elbow. Hearing the gentle Russian fills Sasha with a shock of homesickness so strong that he nearly flinches away from it, wincing a little at the longing that echoes through him. 

"I had a big lunch," he lies, and Zhenya just scoffs.

"Our ghost, Nicholas. The headless one-"

"Almost headless," Sasha cuts in, trying to tease and falling flat. 

Zhenya ignores him, barging on. "He says you're always watching, Sasha. Watching the ghosts. He thought someone should tell you that- whoever it is, whoever you think about when you watch them, it's not-" Zhenya makes an uncertain noise, pausing for a moment. "It's better that they aren't a ghost, and it's better for you not to wish they were. He said people from non-magical families always come and think that they could get someone back, once they learn about ghosts. But things don't work like that, Sasha, even with magic."

And it's not that Zhenya's telling Sasha anything unexpected, anything he hadn't desperately read in a library book the first day he realized what the pearly, translucent forms were. But it still aches. Zhenya wraps an arm around his shoulders and squeezes tight, murmuring about some game that's going to happen soon and how fun it will be and how Sasha will have the time of his life, and mostly how he should really eat something because he's so skinny Zhenya can feel his ribs poking out through all his robes. 

"How are you going to be a great athlete when I can break you with my little finger, Sasha?" he admonishes, waving a dinner roll in Sasha's face and making him laugh. If it's a little strained, the table's mostly empty by now anyway, so it hardly matters.

 

* * *

 

 

The first Quidditch match of the year changes everything. Sasha and Zhenya are sitting side by side in the stands, and Zhenya keeps tossing him these haughty, superior looks and saying, “You’ll like this, Sasha. Best sport.”

Sasha rolls his eyes, because unlike so many of the pure-blooded wizard kids Sasha’s met in his classes so far, Zhenya _knows_ hockey. He knows there’s already a best sport. Spot’s taken. Everything else is a battle for second place.

Still, when the whistle blows, Sasha has to admit- it’s not bad. Not bad at all.

 

* * *

 

 

By the end of the year, Sasha's more than a little obsessed. Even the Quidditch Cup Final and Slytherin's ensuing terrible, humiliating defeat at the hands of none other than Zhenya's useless pack of lions only serves to push Sasha further in his determination to get out there, up there, _there._  He aces flying lessons through sheer necessity and joy, and it's even worth the smug look on Zhenya's terrible face when Sasha asks for tips on how to train over the summer so he can make the team next year. 

All told, his first year at Hogwarts isn't much to write home about (though he does, of course, because Mama Ovechkina did not raise an ungrateful, unloving son). It's a little lonely, a little confusing. But it's a start, and once Sasha arrives home for summer holidays and convinces his parents to forego birthday presents for the number of years of their choosing in return for a beautiful,  _fast,_ like-enough-to-new Firebolt, he can't help feeling things will only get better.

 _Nothing but time_ , he thinks with bright, vicious joy as he kicks off the dry dirt in the back garden and goes rocketing, confident if a little wobbly, into the air.

 


	2. Year 2

The Great Hall settles into a low, hissing chatter as the new students file in. Sasha doesn’t pay much attention, stomach growling fiercely. He cranes his neck to catch a look at Zhenya, who’s already looking back. Sasha sticks his tongue out, laughing when Zhenya does the same and adds in a rude hand gesture for good measure. 

The Sorting from this side is a lot less nerve-wracking. Sasha vaguely hopes another Russian ends up in Slytherin, but outside of that he’s just daydreaming about the coming feast.

The A’s are uneventful, but then “Backstrom, Nicklas” is called, and there’s a rustle of movement from the Hufflepuff table. That usually means a sibling, from what Sasha gathers from the whispering around him (though having chosen to forego his translation enchantment, he could be a little off there), and Sasha does vaguely remember another Backstrom who’d been in a few of his lessons the previous year.

Sasha shifts until he’s got a better view of the new Backstrom taking his seat on the Sorting stool, a carefully blank expression on his chubby, pale face. The Hat barely touches the tangled golden mess of his hair before it shouts, “Slytherin!” and the table around Sasha bursts into cheers. 

Nicklas Backstrom walks stiffly to the end of the Slytherin table, bypassing the open seats left for him by well-meaning upperclassmen, and sits by himself, perching like a particularly mean-spirited bird on the edge of the bench.  _ Huh _ , Sasha thinks, a little amused. 

A “Crosby, Sidney” goes to Gryffindor soon after, and Sasha watches him take the empty seat next to Zhenya after what looks to be a painfully polite and stilted introduction. Sasha tries briefly to catch Zhenya’s attention again, but gives up after a few moments in which Crosby, Sidney does not stop talking for a single second, while Zhenya frowns and watches the rapid movements of his mouth in deep concentration.

When the Sorting ends, the feast appears like a blessing, and Sasha’s both pleased and just-a-touch home-sickened by the pelmeni and salted herring that pop up at his elbows, like the castle is sending a gift just for him. 

He eats ravenously, barely listening to the dull roar of conversation around him until a group of sixth years beside him break into loud, hooting laughter. 

“I heard all Swedes are part Veela,” says one in a not-quite-whisper. The pack of upperclassmen all glance down the long line of the table, and Sasha follows their gazes to where Nicklas Backstrom is still sitting by himself, picking at his barely-touched plate with a tart little frown on his face. His pale skin is spotty and his eyes are red-rimmed; his curls are dull-gold and look more like a bird’s nest than anything.

_ Still _ , Sasha thinks, watching curiously as Backstrom drops his fork and glances with barely-concealed longing towards the Hufflepuff table, there’s  _ something. _

“They don’t even have Veela in Sweden, idiot,” one of the girls from the Quidditch team snaps, rolling her eyes. Sasha finally looks away from Backstrom and back to his own plate, feeling a little like he’s missed something in the upperclassmen’s conversation. Like they were being mean, but he can’t quite figure out how or why.

Backstrom seems perfectly fine, as far as Sasha is concerned.

 

* * *

 

Quidditch tryouts are everything Sasha’s wanted since he found out magic didn’t completely close his door to competitive sports. He spent the entire summer sweating away in his backyard, his mother graciously agreeing to put him through his paces until he was more than ready to make the Slytherin team as a second year student. 

By the time he makes it back to the common room, his ecstasy at making the team has calmed to a tired but bone-deep satisfaction. He follows the rest of the team through the portrait, pleasantly warm from being surrounded by their conversation. He’s getting better and better at catching snatches of what they’re saying without having to think too hard about it. Sasha wants a shower and he wants his bed, and he’s about to break away towards the second year dorm when he spots a vaguely-familiar blond head tucked away in the darkest corner of the common room.

Sasha pauses uncertainly, just for a moment. He’s never spoken to Nicklas Backstrom, but the way Backstrom is sitting curled up in one of the big armchairs with his chin resting on his knees, staring gloomily out the porthole window into the dark abyss of the lake, makes Sasha a little worried. He takes a deep breath, fixes his face into a wide, welcoming smile, and goes over. 

“See giant squid?” Sasha asks brightly, tilting his head to indicate the window. 

Backstrom goes stiff, squinting up at Sasha as though he’s expecting him to say something nasty. It makes Sasha want to frown, but he keeps smiling. 

“First year, I think is joke. Giant squid!” Sasha shrugs, floundering a little in the face of Backstrom’s complete non-response. “But one day, there it is.” Backstrom just blinks at him, so Sasha finishes somewhat lamely, “Giant squid.”

Backstrom doesn’t reply, but his eyes dart from Sasha’s face down to the broomstick Sasha’s carrying over his shoulder. There’s a flash of something in Backstrom’s face then, that longing again, and Sasha has to stop himself from physically sighing in relief.  

“You play?” Sasha asks, waggling the broomstick a little. “Am team,” he adds, because it’s bubbling out of him and he can’t help it. 

Backstrom purses his lips, eyes darting to the black window and then back to Sasha’s face. “I’ve never fly before,” he says, and his voice is so soft that Sasha nearly drops his broom in surprise. “My parents don’t have magic.”

Sasha’s heart thuds, a dull, not-quite-painful jolt.  _ Him, too!  _ Sasha’s heart yells, joyful.  _ Just like you! _

“Da!” Sasha says quickly, brain skipping around for some words to put with the happy pounding in his chest. “I- yes! I never play until Hogwarts!”

Backstrom blinks, obviously surprised. “You’re Muggleborn?” he asks uncertainly, and Sasha latches onto the word. 

“Muggleborn!” Sasha’s beaming, and Backstrom looks cautiously interested, unfolding a little in his chair so his legs aren’t pulled up against his chest and Sasha can see the symbol on his cotton shirt. It’s like everything inside Sasha lights up at once, and he’s too excited to make any kind of intelligible noise, Russian or otherwise. He just shouts, loud enough that the few other people in the common room all glance up from their work. 

Backstrom jumps, jerking back in his chair and scowling up at Sasha nervously, but Sasha waves aside his concern and taps at the logo in the center of Backstrom’s chest. Crossed hockey sticks. Sasha feels like dancing. Sasha  _ does  _ dance, a little. 

“You play?” he asks again, even more excited now, and Backstrom blinks down at his own chest, Sasha’s fingers resting over the printed sticks above his heart. 

“Hockey?” Backstrom clarifies, and Sasha could combust, honestly. The word’s nearly the same for both of them, then. How incredible, Sasha thinks, and how strange, and how wonderful. 

“Love,” Sasha says, fighting to pour all the sincerity and joy he can manage into it, because he wants Backstrom to understand what it means to him that he’s found someone here, of all places, who even  _ knows  _ about this thing he’d thought was lost to him when he got the Hogwarts letter. 

Backstrom’s round face is serious when he nods back. “Yes,” he says solemnly, brushing aside Sasha’s fingers so he can rest his own hand over the sticks. “Me, too.”

 

* * *

 

It’s not that they become best friends after that, but-

But. Any time Sasha isn’t in lessons, he’s practicing, trying to train his body to excel at a sport he’s only known for a year. And any time Sasha is practicing, Backstrom isn’t far away, eyes critically following Sasha’s progress as he tries complicated dives and rolls, taking shots at the empty hoops.

“Your left arm is weak,” Backstrom says decisively, looking up from his first year Transfiguration book when Sasha finally lands on the pitch, the lowering sun and approaching curfew ending his exercise for the day.

Sasha’s sweaty and exhausted and frustrated, still unused to just  _ throwing  _ a ball instead of-

“Better with stick,” Sasha supplies, nearly defensive, and Backstrom just raises one blond eyebrow, unimpressed.

“Then be a Beater.”

Sasha scowls, partially because the idea  _ had  _ occurred to him, but-

“You want to score.” It’s not a question, the way Backstrom says it, nor does he sound surprised. 

Sasha wipes his sweaty face on his robes, waiting irritably while Backstrom slowly gathers his school books so they can make their way up to dinner. “What about you? You just want to watch all the time, lazy?”

Backstrom looks up from his collected books, carefully tucking one frizzy loose curl behind his ear. “No,” he says evenly, and Sasha will remember the little smile on his face, probably, forever. Will remember Backstrom’s next words as one of the defining moments of his own life- “I want to help.”

By the end of the year,  _ Backstrom  _ is  _ Nicke _ (“You don’t pronounce it right anyway.”), and Sasha is a little bit of a star, even though the Slytherin team as a whole don’t even make it to the House Cup Final this time. 

_ Plenty of time _ , Sasha thinks with a sort of bright determination as he watches the school disappear through the window of the Hogwarts Express, Nicke quietly flipping through a book of Quidditch theory at his side. 


	3. Year 3

The sun is blazing on the pitch, and Knight doesn’t seem particularly impressed with the group of Slytherin Quidditch hopefuls lined up before her. Sasha is genuinely inclined to agree with her assessment, except that Nicke is right in the middle of the pack, stone-faced, clutching his broom so casually that no one would ever know he hadn’t grown up on one. 

Sasha hovers on the edge of the pitch, watching each tryout with a growing sense of excitement. They’re not all bad, but none of them are Nicke. And then it  _ is  _ Nicke’s turn, and he kicks up into the air, grimly determined expression in place, eyes darting to follow the Quaffle as Knight and Slebodnick toss it back and forth in front of the hoops. 

“This should be good,” one of the veteran Beaters says sarcastically, rolling his eyes at Sasha like he expects agreement. 

Sasha doesn’t dignify that with a response. It’s not like Sasha doesn’t know what Chimera is thinking- Nicke doesn’t really  _ look _ like an athlete. He’s a little soft, and it’s easy to think he’d be slow or too reserved. But Sasha spent the better part of last year training with Nicke’s help, and he knows better.

Nicke’s been mostly still, hovering and watching the back and forth between the Captain and the Keeper, but there’s a moment- a slight slip of Slebodnick’s fingers on the Quaffle, or maybe a late release from Knight, and suddenly Nicke’s there, plucking the Quaffle from the air between them, and then it’s sailing through the far right hoop before either of the veteran players have realized what’s happened. 

Nicke circles the goal and catches the Quaffle before it hits the ground, rising back to playing height and holding it loosely beneath his arm. He’s not smiling, but Sasha wouldn’t expect him to.

“Not bad,” allows Knight, catching the Quaffle easily when Nicke tosses it to her. Sasha whoops, grinning encouragingly when Knight shoots a quelling glance his way. “Let’s try some passing drills.”

 

* * *

 

 

The Slytherin table is louder than usual at dinner that night, news from the tryouts passing up and down the benches while the new members of the team get shouted congratulations every few moments.

Nicke is quiet where he sits beside Sasha, skimming his finger along the lines of his textbook as he reads and absentmindedly shoves forkfuls of food into his mouth.

“We told him he made the team, right?” Chimera asks uncertainly, glancing around Sasha to get a look at Nicke’s bowed head. “He doesn’t seem-”

“What you talking about?” interrupts Sasha, grinning. “This Nicke’s excited face.” In the edge of his vision, he catches the corner of Nicke’s mouth quirk up. “You better calm down, Nicke,” he adds sternly, tapping the top of Nicke’s book to get his attention and ignoring it when Nicke tries to swat him away. “You scaring everybody with your wild celebration.”

Nicke glances up just long enough to roll his eyes. He says, "They'll live," and then goes back to studying as if nothing of interest could possibly be happening around him.

* * *

 

 

It’s no one else’s business if Nicke follows Sasha into his dorm after dinner, if the both of them roar so loud and joyful they send the portraits running for cover. No one’s business at all.

 

* * *

 

Sasha is great and the team is good (it would be better, in Sasha’s opinion, if everyone got past Nicke’s... _ Nickeness _ and gave him more playtime, but he  _ is  _ kind of small for now, Sasha guesses, maybe, if you think that kind of thing matters), but it doesn’t happen. Sasha and Nicke sit side by side at the final game between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, and when Zhenya scores his third goal in a row, Nicke makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat and Sasha glances over just in time to catch him pursing his lips in judgment. 

“We have to get better,” Nicke says evenly, eyes tracking the Quaffle as it hurtles through play.

“We practice,” Sasha says simply, shrugging a little. He’s not a small bit fascinated by the change losing brings about in Nicke, the simmering irritation everpresent in his downturned mouth. “Next year, you get more time. We get on a line together. The Ovechkin line,” Sasha says grandly, swishing a hand in front of Nicke’s stubbornly unhappy face to annoy and distract him. 

It works, of course. Nicke tears his eyes away from the game to shoot Sasha his most acidic look, nose wrinkled in apparent distaste. “Why your line? Who makes all the plays, Alexander?”

_ Ohhhh, Alexander!  _ Sasha’s absolutely delighted, can’t stop himself from laughing open-mouthed at a truly disgruntled Nicklas Backstrom. 

“Me! You set them up, I make them.” Nicke’s face doesn’t change a bit, so Sasha relents. “Fine, fine, Nicke, if you gonna pout- the Ovechkin-Backstrom line, ya?”

Nicke’s chin juts out just a little and he turns back to the game, considering. “Backstrom-Ovechkin,” he says decisively, “or else you train yourself a new linemate.” 

They’re still arguing about it when the Gryffindor seeker ends the match, but Sasha does spare a glance for Zhenya being handed the Cup. He looks happy, Sasha thinks, and he deserves it. Besides, let him have the Cup for now. Sasha’s got plenty of time. 


	4. Year 4

Sasha blocked a puck once when he played hockey growing up. It had, expectedly, hurt, and the bruise on his thigh afterwards had looked like one of those expensive, indescribable artsy paintings of nothing in particular. 

The Bludger he takes to the face in their second game of the year is a similar, but worse, experience. One moment they’re beating Ravenclaw 30-0, and the next, he’s on the ground and everything’s oddly muted, like he got hit so hard his ears just stopped working. 

The school nurse is above him in a moment, and then the rest of his team is standing around in a loose, worried circle- the rest of his team except for Nicke, who impatiently shoves his way through the little crowd until he’s kneeling by Sasha’s head with an expression that most people would probably consider calm, though Sasha knows him well enough now to see that Nicke’s positively murderous. 

“Don’t hurt,” Sasha tries to soothe him, but there’s something gummy and weird about his mouth, and the skin around Nicke’s eyes tightens. 

He murmurs something in Swedish that Sasha doesn’t really need translated, and then leans back so the nurse can continue waving her wand around Sasha’s skull. 

“There,” she says after a few tense moments. “I think we’ve staved off the worst of a concussion, but you’ll have to come to the hospital wing to regrow that tooth-”

Sasha blinks, feeling a little slow, a little dazed, and jabs his tongue around inside his mouth until he finds the empty hole at the front where a tooth should be but isn’t.  _ Huh.  _

“And your nose,” she mutters to herself, siphoning blood from Sasha’s face and uniform. “I want better lighting to fix that-”

Sasha looks away from her to find Nicke, who’s still tight-lipped beside him. Nicke watches warily as Sasha reaches up to gently feel his own nose- noticeably off-center, and aching. He smiles at Nicke anyway, very aware of the bloody gap in his teeth now. “How I look, Nicke? Handsome?” he teases, wanting to loosen the harsh clench of Nicke’s jaw.

It works, a little. Nicke purses his lips to fight a smile, but then gives in, lips tugging up just slightly at the corner. “Tough,” Nicke says. “Like a hockey player.”

Sasha gets to finish the game after a lot of begging and pleading with the nurse and the Quidditch coach, and when he comes back to the Slytherin common room that night, he’s still down one tooth and his nose is no straighter. 

Nicke’s waiting in an armchair by the fire, and his eyes narrow when he takes in Sasha’s wide, broken grin. “The nurse couldn’t fix it?” he demands, already half out of his chair as if he’s going to march up to the hospital wing and give her a piece of his mind.

“Tell her not to,” Sasha says, shrugging. He shoos a first year out of the chair beside Nicke’s and collapses into it, bone-tired from the game (losses tend to make things ache just that much worse). He still has some harsh-smelling salve smeared around both eyes, and thankfully the swelling has gone down enough that he can see the little line between Nicke’s brows, the startled ‘o’ of his mouth. 

“I look that bad?” Sasha asks, curious at the way Nicke’s cheeks have turned a bright, splotchy pink. 

Nicke shakes his head slowly, settling back into his chair and watching Sasha carefully, like he’s trying to memorize the new lines of his face.“No,” he says, soft yet decisive, “not bad.”

 

* * *

 

Fourth year isn’t their year, either. 

They go out in the semifinals, knocked out by Gryffindor and their boy-wonder Captain Crosby, but not before things get ugly. Sasha  _ knows  _ Zhenya, is the thing, knows just what to say and do to get under his skin, and it goes both ways. One moment, it’s a game, bumping elbows as they scuffle for the Quaffle, then the next thing he knows he and Zhenya are shouting themselves hoarse, so near a physical altercation that they only notice the match has ended when their teammates fly up to pull them apart. 

Once they’re safely back on the ground, Nicke asks, “What did he say to you?” His expression is flat, near enough to emotionless as he watches the Gryffindor team converge in midair to celebrate above them. 

“Don’t matter,” Sasha admits wearily, glaring up at Zhenya where he’s roaring in triumph. A beat later, Zhenya scowls down in his direction, but his face goes a bit sheepish when he finds Sasha already looking back at him. Despite the heavy weight of another year without the Cup, Sasha finds himself rolling his eyes, sticking his tongue out. Zhenya’s face brightens, and he does the same, pulling the ugliest face Sasha’s ever seen before he goes back to the ecstatic victory huddle. “See?” Sasha asks, nudging Nicke and then wincing when he feels the bruises blossoming on his own arm from Zhenya’s rough elbows. “Don’t matter anymore.”

Nicke doesn’t take his eyes off the Gryffindor huddle, off Zhenya. He just says, “Hm,” in an unimpressed little hum.  _ Hm, indeed,  _ Sasha thinks grimly, because Nicklas Backstrom is nothing if not stubborn.

 

* * *

 

From the stands a week later, Sasha watches with a sense of dreamlike familiarity as Zhenya tosses the Quaffle to Crosby who sends it sailing effortlessly through the center hoop, putting Gryffindor so far ahead in points that it doesn’t even matter when the Hufflepuff Staal snatches the Snitch right from underneath his Gryffindor brother’s nose. 

But, Sasha thinks doggedly, the Slytherin team is only getting better every year.  _ He’s  _ only getting better, and while he can’t drag them to the Quidditch Cup on his own, he doesn’t have to, because he’s got Nicke. And they’ve got a summer to practice, a visit already signed off on by their parents-

_ Plenty of time. _


	5. Year 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> credit to whoever first called nicklas backstrom "mean lars"  
> i first saw it from thornescratch on tumblr, but i'm new(ish) here, so?
> 
> thanks to my nailbeds for kristoffer's swedish meany line.

Nicke is visiting for the end of the summer when their Hogwarts letters arrive, and Sasha’s comes accompanied by an emerald and silver badge with an ornate  _ C  _ and a proclamation that he’s been made Quidditch captain. He blinks at the little pin, shining up from where it sits in his lax palm, and then looks up to find his mother and Nicke watching him curiously. 

He holds it up for them to examine and Tatyana allows herself a small, pleased smile. “Of course,” is all she says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the whole world. 

Nicke waits until they’ve finished the celebration dinner and they’re squirreled away up in Sasha’s bedroom before he holds his hand out expectantly, and Sasha takes the pin from his pocket and drops it into Nicke’s waiting palm.

Sasha watches with a strange, anxious feeling in his stomach as Nicke traces the C with a fingertip, tilting the badge so it catches the light.

“I’m surprised it took so long,” Nicke says finally, moving to hand the pin back to Sasha. Sasha doesn’t take it, just blinks at him, frowning.

“To make me captain?”

Nicke huffs. “Obviously,” he says, rolling his eyes. When Sasha still doesn’t move to take the badge, Nicke makes a soft, frustrated sound and struggles up onto his knees, causing Sasha’s mattress to sink and tilt dangerously. He looms over Sasha a little threateningly, undoing the sharp pin and reaching forward to grab at Sasha’s shirt, deftly fixing the badge over his heart. Sasha barely breathes as Nicke’s hands work quickly over his chest, and then Nicke’s sitting back on his heels, taking in the badge on Sasha’s chest with a calmly smug expression. 

“See? It fits,” Nicke says, like that explains everything. 

Sasha looks from Nicke to the wardrobe mirror across his room. His own reflection looks surprised, and he glances quickly away from his face to the badge fixed to his rumpled t-shirt, and then to Nicke, face pink and pleased where he’s watching Sasha watch him. 

Sasha doesn’t know what to  _ say _ , but he leaves the badge in place while they watch the Dynamo game on Sasha’s tiny television set, and when they turn the lights off and settle into Sasha’s bed, inches apart, Nicke says, “Goodnight,  _ Captain _ ,” in a sly little voice that makes Sasha laugh and loosens some of the tension resting beneath the pin.

 

* * *

 

No one seems disappointed that Sasha’s been made captain. On the contrary, the Slytherin team tryouts are  _ full  _ of hopefuls, and a little first year even asks Sasha for an autograph. The returning team members  _ giggle  _ about that behind him while he blinks, confused, at the tiny boy before he realizes-

“You’re a Hufflepuff,” Sasha says, exasperated, spotting the yellow on the boy’s tie. “Closed tryouts!”

Sasha can hear Kuzma and Oshie cackling behind him, but he signs the kid’s school bag before shooing him off the pitch. 

The rest of tryouts are thankfully more reasonable, and by the end of it they’ve got a full roster that Sasha feels pretty good about, all things considered. 

Nicke hangs back with him to help put up the school brooms and clean up the locker room, and Sasha looks at him balefully until Nicke gives in and asks, “ _ What?” _

“Autograph, Nicke?”

Nicke snorts, amused apparently in spite of himself. “He probably saw that article about you in  _ Quidditch Weekly  _ over the summer. Ten people asked me just this morning if it was true you grew up only playing Muggle sports.”

Sasha drops the broom he’s holding. “Article?”

Nicke frowns at him, then seems to decide Sasha isn’t joking and takes pity on him. “They ran a series of up-and-coming Quidditch stars to look out for. You, Crosby. Malkin,” he adds the last name with a sour twist to his mouth and Sasha grimaces internally. “It said a lot of the leagues have their eyes on you, but especially the AQL.” 

Sasha gives up on the brooms and drops heavily onto one of the locker room benches. “AQL.” 

Nicke’s face is carefully blank as he gathers the broom Sasha dropped and locks it away in the cupboard. “Like we talked about over the summer, right? I thought you knew.” 

That brings back a flood of memories- Nicke’s eyes glinting in the dark of Sasha’s bedroom, the covers drawn up to his chin while they whispered what Sasha had thought of as, at most, distant dreams.

Sasha  _ hadn’t  _ known. But also- “Like  _ we  _ talked about,” Sasha points out. “What I’m going to do in America without you? Who’s gonna pass to me?”

Nicke’s mouth twitches but his voice is flat when he answers, “Probably everyone on whatever team you go to, Ovi. I don’t think they’ll sign you on as wall art.”

“They might,” Sasha disagrees reasonably. “Look, I’m handsome.” He smiles winningly at Nicke who pointedly refuses to look in his direction.

“You’re  _ something _ ,” Nicke mutters, shouldering his practice bag and kicking at Sasha’s foot. “Up, Sasha, come on. We’ll be late to dinner and I’ve got reading to do.”

 

* * *

 

It’s O.W.L. year, as if Sasha doesn’t have enough to worry about. He’s not bad at lessons, thankfully. (Most lessons. Divination is a nightmare, and the crackpot professor won’t stop reading failure in every line of Sasha’s palm, but Sasha’ll be fucked if he lets some old bat with a Gryffindor neck tattoo naysay him to distraction.) 

There’s just no  _ time _ . Practice, study, lessons, study, practice, study, maybe sleep? Practice. Study. A bit of practice thrown in, for good measure. 

He doesn’t even know what day it is, just that he’s written more essays in the last few weeks than in the last four years combined, and he’s so sore from running speed drills with the team that he groans when he sits down at the table for dinner. He’s too tired to even serve himself, but Nicke’s already there, pushing a plate full of chicken and potatoes over without glancing up from his own homework.

“Divination bad?” he asks distractedly, underlining a few lines of text. 

Sasha doesn’t faceplant into his food, but it’s a near thing. “Waste of time,” he grumbles. “Worked on Potions essay, made notes to go over with team about Gryffindor game next week.”

Nicke glances up, lips pursed thoughtfully as if he’s deciding whether or not he’s disappointed in Sasha for not paying attention in the world’s most pointless lesson. He seems to settle on  _ not,  _ looking back down at his book and chewing on the tip of his quill while Sasha shoves chicken into his mouth like a starving man. 

“This weekend,” Nicke starts suddenly, and Sasha nearly has a heart attack. Has he forgotten something? Practice? A game? Christ, is the Gryffindor game actually  _ this  _ weekend? Sasha’s head swings towards the Gryffindor table and he searches out Zhenya frantically, like Zhenya will be holding up some sign to tell Sasha what a loser he is and how badly he’s handling this whole captaincy thing-

“ _ - _ is Hogsmeade,” Nicke goes on, still focusing mostly on his book, so he’s missed Sasha’s minor breakdown. “I think we should go.”

“What?” Sasha asks stupidly, hand over his heart while he waits for it to return to a reasonable human speed.

“You’re stressed. You need a break. And,” he adds, like a tiny throwaway nothing, “I’ve never been.”

Sasha’s mouth drops open, confused. “Fourth year, Nicke,” he points out. 

“We were always practicing; the pitch was never booked on Hogsmeade weekends,” Nicke says, dog-earing his page in the textbook and slipping it back into his bag. He looks up at Sasha finally. “We can move practice to that night. Just go for the afternoon.” He sounds cautiously, quietly excited, and Sasha caves instantly. 

“Okay,” he agrees, nodding and watching the way Nicke’s face lights up, just a little, subtle and soft. “Saturday.”

“Which is tomorrow,” Nicke points out patiently, and Sasha just shakes his head, so tired that he finds himself beyond things like Mortal Time.

It turns out to actually be a really good idea. Surprisingly, Nicke’s already waiting in the common room when Sasha comes up from his dorm, and he’s  _ different  _ somehow, keyed up and a little jittery. Sasha’s seen him excited before (he will remember Nicke’s first game forever, his face so blank it’d made Chimera ask if he was sleepwalking), but he rarely shows it so much. Sasha grins, bumping their shoulders together as they pass through the portrait. 

“Ready for practice, Nicke? Decided to cancel Hogsmeade; everyone meeting us at the pitch.”

Nicke scowls, not justifying Sasha with a look but mumbling, “ _ Alexander,” _ petulantly under his breath. 

It’s  _ fun.  _ Sasha only thinks about Quidditch maybe twice and his O.W.L.’s not a single time, and the practice that night is lighter, easier than anything they’ve done all year. It feels good. 

And Nicke, bless him, only looks the slightest bit smug about it. 

 

* * *

 

Fifth year is notable for Two Things. 

The First is The Curse. It’s not that Sasha doesn’t listen, or that he doesn’t talk to people- it’s just that, apparently, some things are so ingrained in the collective magical psyche that no one bothers to  _ fucking bring them up _ .

It’s Kuzma who finally thinks to mention it. They’re on a winning streak, untouchable, and the team is lingering on the locker room longer than strictly necessary after soundly thrashing Gryffindor. Sasha’s glowing, only half-listening to everyone’s chatter while he lets Nicke perform some icing spell on the nasty hit a stray Bludger landed on his dominant shoulder. 

“Gonna break the curse this year,” Kuzma gushes, kicking off his boots and wiggling his socked toes with apparent relish. 

Mojo laughs, throwing a glove at Kuzma’s face. “And how are we going to do that?”

“Be too good,” Kuzma says simply, shrugging and grinning toothily. 

Sasha’s frozen, listening to their exchange with a sinking feeling in his stomach. “What curse?” he asks, and they both jump, turning to look at him with startled expressions.

“Slytherin Curse?” Kuzma says slowly.

“Everyone knows about it,” Mojo adds. “You grow up hearing it all the time- the Slytherin team is cursed. We’ll never win another Quidditch cup. Or anything, really,” he adds the last part with a snort. 

Sasha turns to look at Nicke, only to find Nicke already looking steadily back at him. “You know, Nicke?” 

Nicke just wrinkles his nose, wand prodding Sasha’s bruised shoulder harder than is probably advisable for healing. “Muggleborn, Sasha.” Which, of course, if Sasha didn’t know, how could Nicke? How could either of them- and the Hat, putting them in this house, when it had seen what Sasha wanted more than anything-

“ _ Don’t _ ,” Nicke snaps, forgoing his wand and punching the fresh-forming bruise directly with his fist. Sasha flinches, apparently harder than Nicke expects, because he looks down and seems to realize where his hit landed. He softens his face and his voice, but he’s still incredibly serious. “Don’t do that, Sasha. Don’t get in your head about it. Nothing’s changed,” Nicke says, quiet and nearly fierce. “We’re still going to win, curse or no curse.”

The proclamation is met with cautious nods from the rest of the team, and Sasha looks around at them all, their faith in him and themselves, and smiles, nudging Nicke with his shoulder, all forgiven.

“Curse just one more thing to beat,” Sasha says, a million times lighter and more confident than he truthfully feels in the moment. “Just gotta keep winning.”

 

* * *

 

The winning streak, incredibly, continues, which brings about the Second Notable Thing.

Hufflepuff games aren’t  _ bad,  _ but they’re usually not memorable. This one, though, is more brutal than expected, and it doesn’t help that the only person Sasha’s ever seen get under Nicke’s skin is flying opposite them nearly every shift. 

Kristoffer has never bothered Sasha, but he bothers Nicke like it’s his fucking job. He’s shadowing Nicke so close their knees are bumping, and every time Sasha’s nearby for a pass or play he hears the constant stream of nastiness they’re spewing back and forth. It makes him wish, momentarily, that he still used the translation enchantment, just so he would know what turned Nicke’s face that violent shade of red. 

They’re ahead by 30 points, and the Hufflepuff seeker is notoriously bad, so Sasha isn’t worried much. Nicke’s got the Quaffle, trading elbows with Kristoffer and trying to get past him to either pass or score, and Sasha’s flying up to take the pass when Kristoffer hisses something so acidic that Sasha nearly winces-

“Du är så pinsam,  _ Ovechkin’s jävla husdjur _ ."”

Well, there’s one bit of that Sasha understood, and the tone’s enough from him to know he doesn’t particularly like it. He’s getting ready to intervene, gathering speed, pulse hammering while he rockets towards Kristoffer-

When Nicklas Backstrom purposefully, calmly, unrepentantly slams the Quaffle into his own brother’s face. 

It’s a  _ shitshow  _ from there: Kristoffer’s nose must break, blood spurting down the front of his yellow robes while the Quaffle plummets to the earth, forgotten; the whistle sounds, shrill and panicked, while the commentator can barely contain herself- “ _ LOOKS LIKE WE HAVE THE MAKINGS OF A BACKSTROM ON BACKSTROM BRAWL-” _ , which  _ like hell they do _ as far as Sasha is concerned _ ,  _ because Slytherin can’t afford to lose Nicke for the next two games just for a stupid  _ fight _ -

Sasha’s the closest, and he gets there in time to loop an arm around Nicke’s waist to keep him firmly out of arm’s reach of any brother-shaped targets. Kristoffer’s holding his swelling nose, gloves soaked through with viscous, snotty blood, but he looks strangely triumphant where he sits on his broom, watching Sasha pin Nicke in place. 

“Still Mean Lars, huh?” Kristoffer spits, stuffy voice taking a little of the sting out of it. It still turns Nicke’s expression mutinous, and he jerks forward in Sasha’s hold,  _ stupid. _

Thank fucking god the Quidditch coach arrives before Kristoffer goes on, but she looks about half as angry as Nicke, which doesn’t bode well for any of them. They all get an earful, and Kristoffer gets sent to the mediwitch, and Nicke gets a penalty that has him sitting out the rest of the game. He’s tight-lipped and stone-faced when he flies down to the locker room, not sparing a second glance for the shocked faces of his teammates or the buzzing stands.

Sasha wants to ask-  _ what in the living hell could Kristoffer have said to set Nicke off like that?  _ Sasha can’t imagine, and his name being thrown around in it makes him distinctly uncomfortable. He watches Nicke disappear into the locker room before he shakes his head, gathering himself. They still have a game to win, and maybe just this once it’s better for everyone if the Backstrom brothers sit it out. 

Mean Lars, though. 

That sticks like a fucking thorn, and Sasha could not be more delighted. 

“It’s a stupid childhood nickname,” Nicke snaps when Sasha brings it up after dinner a few days later, figuring a cool-down period is in order. 

“Ooooh, careful, Ovi,” Mojo stage-whispers, leaning half over the table and making a big show of putting a hand up to hide his mouth. “You’re gonna piss off Mean Lars.”

The table around them cracks up, and even Nicke smiles a little reluctantly, rolling his eyes. He tells Mojo to shut up, but there’s no heat to it. 

It’s inescapable after that. Nicke can’t so much as sigh a little too loud without someone from the team breaking in, “ _ Dear God, run! Mean Lars is back!” _

“It’s like the Hulk,” Wilson observes before one practice, flexing his essentially non-existent muscles. He accidentally bumps Holtby, who’s already in his Keeper Trance or whatever it is he does to prepare, and his eyes snap open, brows swooping together and neck snapping around to glare at Willy.

“ _ Watch what you’re doing,”  _ he hisses viciously, and then sinks back into his apparently-peaceful pregame ritual. Zen, or whatever. 

It’s awkwardly silent for a moment, everyone looking around at one another nervously, and then Nicke says, simply, “Mean Holtz,” and the practice might as well be fucking over for all any of them can stop giggling after that.

 

* * *

 

Same old, same old. They do make it to the Final, at least, and they play their hearts out. But it just isn’t  _ enough _ . They’re the better part of neck-and-neck when the Ravenclaw seeker ends it three hours in, and Sasha’s too fucking exhausted to be disappointed just yet. Or he’s too disappointed to even feel it. 

When he lands on the pitch, it feels like his legs might just give out, but then Holtby’s there, and Nicke, and Kuzma. They all look worse for wear, sweaty and red-faced, robes soaked through and faces grim. The  _ C _ on Sasha’s chest might as well catch fire in that moment, burning all the guilt and anger and sadness back into him, transforming it into something that feels heavy and permanent. 

“Next year,” Sasha tells them, looking them each in the eye. It’s a promise just as much as it’s a demand. He saves Nicke for last and Nicke looks right back, silently pissed off and more determined than ever. 

_ Plenty of time _ , Sasha thinks, prays, commands, and Nicke nods slightly, a quick, brutal dip of his chin before he turns his back on the pitch and heads to the locker room, the rest of the team following in a ragtag line. 

Year five, in the books.


	6. Year 6

Nicke’s letter comes with a shiny prefect’s badge, which in Sasha’s opinion (as someone who’s regularly heard Nicklas Backstrom swear a blue streak up one side and down the other of the Slytherin locker room) is hilarious. Even more hilarious: watching New Prefect Nicklas Backstrom herd a bewildered crowd of first years onto the Hogwarts Express, because there’s nothing Nicke loves more than responsibility and interacting with other people, especially snot-nosed back-talking first years.

Sixth year seems like it’ll be fun.  

 

* * *

 

The bird that lands at the Slytherin table the first morning of term draws every eye in the hall. It’s  _ massive _ , and it’s also  _ not an owl _ .

It’s still sitting in front of Sasha’s plate twenty minutes later when Nicke finally makes his way down to breakfast, bleary-eyed and tousle-headed and still bearing pillow marks on one swollen cheek. He pauses for the briefest moment when he finally glances up and notices the bird before scoffing  _ Really  _ under his breath and slumping into the seat beside Sasha. 

“Take the letter from it, at least, so it can leave,” Nicke says through a mouthful of porridge a beat later when he’s realized Sasha hasn’t made any move to do so yet.

The bird’s wide yellow eye zeroes in on Nicke for a moment before jerking back to Sasha, the long, cruel-looking beak clicking once in apparent agreement and irritation. 

“Mmmm,” Sasha hums, eyeing the bird while it eyes him back. “He and I, we have agreement, Nicke. I don’t touch him, I keep my hands.”

The bird shrieks, then, a piercing, carrying  _ CAW _ that makes the whole hall go quiet. 

“ _ Really _ , Ovi,” Nicke snaps, reaching out and snatching the letter from the scaly, thick talons. He tosses the letter onto Sasha’s plate and then shoos the bird, flapping one hand distractedly as he turns back to his breakfast. 

“Which team is it from?” Nicke asks with the barest hint of interest, and the other members of the Slytherin Quidditch team all look up from their respective conversations immediately. 

“What?” Sasha asks blankly, staring down at the fancy-looking letter in front of him.

“Bald eagle, Ovi.  _ American  _ Quidditch League, Ovi. Sixth year, Ovi.” Nicke says each phrase with growing exasperation, but he’s smiling a little.

So that’s the first invitation Sasha receives- to visit America, to come  _ see our program,  _ to consider his future. It’s from the Washington Capitals, and Sasha doesn’t know much about them at all, but he does feel a warm affection that they clearly  _ want  _ him, enough to send him an invitation at the earliest possible date. He gets many more letters over the course of the first month of term, all delivered by increasingly outlandish mascots, but that first one stays with him, somehow. He hasn’t made a choice, and he won’t, not without talking to his mother, his father, Nicke. Not without seeing for himself. 

But the first one sticks with him, and that’s worth something.

 

* * *

 

The first game of the year (Hufflepuff, thank god) is looming, and Sasha’s doing his best not to run the team into the ground with practices while also trying to get them back into shape after a summer apart. There’s not a whole lot of new blood, thankfully, but there’s Burakovsky (very fast, very excited, very  _ young _ ) and the returning Beaters, Wilson and Latta ( _ tempers _ , Sasha remembers with grim amusement).

He’s distracted, drawing a complicated play diagram in his gravy at dinner, so he doesn’t notice Nicke sitting down beside him until he actually waves a hand in front of Sasha’s face. “Ovi, are you listening? I need you to come look at something.”

Sasha blinks rapidly, tearing his eyes away from the smeared nonsense of his dinner and focusing in on Nicke’s expectant face. “What?”

“Come  _ on _ ,” Nicke presses, standing and tugging on the back of Sasha’s robes. He still hasn’t changed out of his Quidditch practice robes, planning to go back out and run through a few more solo drills before curfew. 

“Nicke,I’ve got to-” 

“Got to come on,” Nicke says, a little menacing this time, so Sasha sighs heavily and grabs his things, following Nicke from the hall. 

“Nicke, I’ve got to practice- they said scouts, Nicke, in all the letters! What if there are scouts at the first game, Nicke, and I-”

He has the distinct feeling that Nicke isn’t listening, but he continues his complaints anyway as he follows Nicke out the entrance hall and onto the grounds. It’s not quite dark yet, the black outline of the Forbidden Forest rising in the distance, Nicke’s golden hair mostly silver in the halflight. 

“And then, Nicke, what if we lose, but I play okay? Then they say, ‘Alexander Ovechkin? Not a team player. Pass.’ Are you listening, Nicke? What if they say, ‘Oh, Alexander Ovechkin? No teeth, crooked nose, too handsome for us-’” 

Nicke laughs finally, which is what Sasha was aiming for, so he shuts up. Mostly. “Where we going, Nicke?”

“Almost there,” Nicke answers, which _ isn’t _ an answer, but Sasha trusts him. They round a bank of trees and come out on the far side of the Great Lake, and Sasha stops so suddenly it almost feels like his heart keeps going on without him for a moment. 

“Nicke,” Sasha says, and his voice comes out softer, different than he meant. 

Nicke finally turns to look at him, and he’s smiling. It occurs to Sasha that probably most people wouldn’t realize Nicke is nervous. There are a few little lights flitting over the lake-  _ fairies _ , Sasha realizes- and Sasha can just pick out the high pink color on Nicke’s cheeks. 

“Happy Birthday, Sasha.” 

There’s ice on the lake. Not  _ all  _ of it, that would be a ridiculous feat. But this alcove, this recess of the lake is iced over, and there’s a very familiar shape rising on the far side of the ice-

A net. A goal.

Sasha makes an involuntary noise in the back of his throat, his face cracking into a wide, disbelieving smile. 

“I did my best with the goal, and the sticks,” Nicke explains, as if Sasha is even capable of thinking critically about anything in front of him at the moment. “The skates are- well,” he says, rolling his eyes self-consciously. Sasha follows Nicke to the edge of the ice in a daze, finds two pairs of skates. “The laces kept-” Nicke murmurs to himself, and then holds out the larger pair of skates for Sasha to examine. They look fine, perfect, actually, except how the laces are bright yellow. “I don’t know  _ why _ ,” Nicke huffs, sounding adorably frustrated as he stares down at the skates in his hands. “I think, ‘normal skates’, and here they are, normal skates, but always, the laces-”

“They’re perfect,” Sasha cuts in, taking them from Nicke without another word and dropping to the grass to pull off his shoes. Nicke is still for a moment before he does the same, sitting carefully next to Sasha and kicking at the heels of his own sneakers. 

“I thought of inviting Kuzma, maybe- ah, maybe Evgeni Malkin? So you could have an actual game, but I wasn’t sure-” 

“It’s perfect, Nicke,” Sasha cuts in, emphatic. He finishes lacing his skates and waves his feet back and forth, tapping his toes together. He actually really likes the yellow laces, somehow. Maybe he could get yellow laces for his Quidditch boots?

Nicke doesn’t respond, and Sasha glances over, worried for a moment that he’s said something wrong. But Nicke’s pink-faced and content, smiling softly as he works on finishing up his own laces. 

Skating is such a rarity in Sasha’s life now, but he still remembers the feeling like a jolt to the heart when he steps out on the ice, Nicke right behind him. They’ve played street hockey for the last two summers, but it’s different actually seeing Nicke on the ice, graceful in a way that’s unexpected but fitting all at once. 

They practice faceoffs, but it’s a little bit of a nightmare with how they can’t stop laughing when their faces get so close together, and Nicke  _ cheats _ , stealing the puck while Sasha’s still laughing and sending it sliding right to the back of the net.

“It’s my birthday, Nicke!” Sasha shouts, mock angry as he chases Nicke across the ice, trying to steal the puck off the blade of Nicke’s stick. It’s pitch black by the time they collapse back onto the grass, breathless and sweating in the heavy night air. Their elbows bump as they unlace their skates, and it fills Sasha with a joy so complicated that it makes his chest ache.

Another life, Sasha thinks a little wistfully, and this could’ve been theirs.

But what they have is so far from bad that he can’t even find it in himself to be melancholy. They’re going to beat Hufflepuff, and then they’re going to win the House Cup, and then they’re going to sign with an American Quidditch team, and they’re going to play together their whole lives. He can’t see any reason to be sad about that. 

“Setting a bad example,” Sasha says, as they make their way up the dark grounds and back to the castle. “Breaking curfew, Nicke.”

Nicke shoulders Sasha hard in the side, awkwardly touching the prefect badge on his chest. “Some things are more important than curfew,  _ Ovi _ .” 

Sasha beams, following Nicke down to the dungeons and forgoing a shower to fall into his own bed, exhausted and disgusting but happy.

 

* * *

 

It’s sort of a blur- like the year ends before he’s really realized it’s started, before he’s able to appreciate any of it, before he has time to prepare himself. 

Stepping off the Hogwarts Express at the end of his sixth year feels different somehow. There are a few contributing factors, the most obvious of which is the stinging, heavy loss of the Quidditch Cup, to Gryffindor,  _ again _ . That’s not unusual in itself, but the absolute certainty Sasha’d had that this was their year, and the way his  _ plenty of time  _ mantra has turned a little desperate-

So there’s all that. 

But there’s also the looming visit to America, his scheduled meetings with the heads of the American Quidditch League teams. His future, not so far off as it’d seemed just a few months back. But that’s exciting. Nerve-racking. But exciting.

And then there’s Nicke. Or the lack of Nicke, rather. Sasha nearly misses his step onto the platform when he realizes it’ll be the first summer since fourth year where he won’t see Nicke until they meet on this platform again in September.

“ _ Ovi, _ ” Nicke murmurs reproachfully when he runs into Sasha’s back. “Did you forget something on the train?”

Sasha steps quickly out of the way so people can move past him, but Nicke steps with him, eyebrows raised expectantly. 

“No, I didn’t- I have everything,” Sasha says, shaking the handle of his trunk as evidence. 

Nicke just waits, tucking his hair behind his ear and staring up at Sasha unblinkingly. 

Sasha isn’t sure how to explain what he’s thinking, so he settles on, “Just hoping you have a good summer.”

Nicke’s face melts into a soft sort of surprise, mouth slightly open like Sasha’s said something unexpected. “You, too, Sasha. You’ll write, yes? Tell me all about America.”

Sasha spots Nicke’s mother and brother waiting down the platform, so he wraps Nicke in a quick hug, crushing him just a little in the way that usually makes Nicke hiss like an angry cat. He doesn’t this time, though, just fists a hand in the back of Sasha’s t-shirt and holds on a beat longer than Sasha expects. 

“We’ll get it next year, Ovi,” Nicke says, quiet but determined, inarguably sure. 

Sasha beams, pushing Nicke away towards his mother. “Yes, I know. Plenty of time, Nicke.”

So that’s the end of sixth year. 


	7. An Intermission

 

He's eight years old, and he's angry. 

Or- actually, _anger_ doesn’t even feel like the right word. Anger is what the little Saturday morning cartoon Moomins feel when their eyebrows squinch together and they frown at one another, and then they work out their problems and they make up and everything is fine.

So maybe Nicklas isn’t angry. He doesn’t know a word for whatever emotion is stronger than anger, if there even is one, but if there is, that’s what _he_ is. His cheek throbs where Kristoffer’s elbow caught him in their scuffle over the puck, and his stomach is turning, like he might actually be sick from how upset he is.

Kristoffer and his friends are already halfway down the little makeshift rink the village kids share, but Nicklas can’t bring himself to follow them. His hands are shaking where he’s gripping Kristoffer’s old hockey stick, and his mouth tastes metallic and sour.

One of the other boys laughs, loud and joyful and bright, and the sound carries, rams up against all the bad feeling swirling in Nicklas’ body.

Nicklas hates losing. He’s smaller than Kristoffer and his friends, younger, but that hardly takes the nasty sting out of watching them whip the puck through the makeshift goal posts and whoop in celebration.

One minute, Nicklas is shaking, seething, raging.

The next moment, the ice is gone.

Not all of it. Nicklas is still standing, but the other end of the rink where his brother and his brother’s friends are-

Their skates are all squelching in inches of frigid mud, the melty slush of the rink sloshing up around their ankles. They howl, shocked and confused, and Nicklas watches as a few of them lose their balance and butt-plant in the mud.

_Justice_ , Nicklas thinks, nodding to himself. Impossible as it seems, he can’t shake the feeling that he did that, somehow, or that it happened _because_ of him. But that’s ridiculous, so Nicklas shoves the thought aside, skates carefully to the edge of the rink and grabs one of the extra pucks, scooping it up on the blade of his stick and juggling it the way he’s seen some of the older boys do when they’re warming up.

He just needs to practice, is all, and he will. He’ll practice until he can skate circles around Kristoffer, freak natural accidents or no.

Nicklas Backstrom hates to lose.

 

* * *

 

Kristoffer’s first letter from Hogwarts is nearly impossible to understand. Nicklas doesn’t know what a “Fizzing Whizbee” is, or the difference between a Charm and a Transfiguration, or how a hat can talk, or why anyone would want it to, for that matter. But Kristoffer also sends a rolled up magazine with _Quidditch Weekly_ emblazoned across the front, and Nicklas wears it ragged over the next few months. The pictures move, which is neat- but they have a television in the den, and it gets a lot of channels and Nicklas can choose what he wants to watch-

It’s not the moving. It’s the _flying_.

Nicklas’ English isn’t terrible for a ten year old, but there are words in the magazine that he’s pretty sure he hasn’t been and will not be taught in regular school. He spends an entire evening writing and then rewriting a return letter to Kristoffer- the nice wellwishes his parents make him send, and then a flood of questions about Quidditch. How many players. What are the rules. How do the brooms work. What is a Snitch. How do you get 300 points in a single game. Is it fun. Is it fast. Is it like hockey.

Kristoffer takes his sweet time replying ( _I’m very busy,_ he writes, _because classes here are very difficult and important),_ but to his credit, his answers are incredibly detailed. He even writes an extended play-by-play (with commentary) on the first Quidditch game of the year. Which means there are school teams.

Which means, making the perfectly safe assumption that Kristoffer was lying when he wrote that the headmaster’s office contained a picture of Nicklas with _NOT ALLOWED TO ENTER SCHOOL GROUNDS UNDER PAIN OF DEATH_ scrawled across it, that Nicklas can play.

 

* * *

 

**Year 1**

 

Nicklas knows he wants to play Quidditch, but it turns out there’s a difference between knowing and _knowing_. The magazine articles, the moving pictures, the curious conversations with Kristoffer- that’s all fine. It’s enough. Nicklas knows what he wants.

But _knowing_ is different.

_Knowing_ is watching Alexander Ovechkin score his first-ever goal, hearing his celebratory roar and _feeling_ the absolute joy pouring off him, even though Nicklas is just sitting in the stands, fists clenched in his lap. The crowd around Nicklas erupts, the emerald-and-silver masses roaring right back, adoring, enchanted, _in love_.

His name is Alexander Ovechkin, but he won’t let Nicklas call him anything but Sasha.

His name is Alexander Ovechkin, and he spends a whole evening shoulder-to-shoulder with Nicklas in the common room, painstakingly teaching him how to write his name _correctly-_ the familiar А, then the л, e, к, с, and on and on. (The д is always a little clumsy somehow, but Sasha doesn’t seem bothered.)

“Now you gotta write on summer,” Sasha explains, beaming down at Nicklas’ steadily-improving penmanship. “No excuse!”

Nicklas has a few excuses- _what_ will he write? He’s never really written to anyone except Kristoffer. And Nicklas isn’t a big fan of owls- their beaks are sharp and mean and they look as if they don’t trust him, a feeling he can only describe as mutual.

But he’s distracted by one of the things that fascinates him the most about Alexander- about Sasha.

“Why don’t you use a translation enchantment?” Nicklas asks. It’s something he’s been painfully curious about since the first time Sasha tried to speak to him, but he’s never felt comfortable asking. Now, though, seems as good a time as any, seeing as he’s just written Sasha’s name about twenty times under Sasha’s own close and personal instruction.

“Hm?” Sasha hums, only half paying attention. He’s using his wand to poke at one of NIcklas’ sloppier attempts at his name, like he’s trying to nudge the lines into place. It works, sort of. He finally looks up at Nicklas, and his face is as open as ever, a little confused but so easy to read that Nicklas almost feels like he’s intruding sometimes. “Don’t like it,” Sasha explains simply. “How I’m gonna learn if I don’t learn?” he jokes, and Nicklas blinks, surprised.

“That... makes sense,” he decides, and Sasha snorts.

“Don’t gotta sound so surprised, Nicke. I always make sense.”

Nicklas makes a noncommittal noise and goes back to working on the little ч’s that he keeps doing backwards, somehow.

 

* * *

 

**Year 3**

Evgeni Malkin is fine. Evgeni Malkin is Sasha’s friend, and off the pitch, he’s never been anything but perfectly polite to Nicklas.

But they are not currently _off_ the pitch, and Nicklas’ blood feels like it’s about to boil right the fuck over. Nicklas usually shadows Crosby when they fly, but Malkin is just _there_ everywhere Nicklas turns. He can’t cover Crosby, he can’t get a hand on the Quaffle, he barely misses taking a Bludger to the head because he can’t see around Malkin’s hulking lanky frame.

He’s two seconds away from spitting in Malkin’s face when the air is split by a deafening cheer from the stands, and he and Malkin turn in unison to the far end of the pitch where Sasha is practically standing on his broom, fists pumping in triumph.

“ _AND THAT’S THE SECOND YEAR SLYTHERIN SEEKER KUZNETSOV WITH THE SNITCH, ENDING THE GAME 240 TO 160.”_

Malkin is still hovering a few feet to Nicklas’ left, scowling now as the Slytherin team and fans break into wild celebration.

“Good game,” Malkin says gruffly, holding out a hand to Nicklas.

Nicklas stares at it, then up at Malkin’s surly face. Nicklas is still angry, is the thing, the win barely soothing how fucking useless he felt all game.

“Sure,” he shrugs, giving Malkin’s hand the briefest squeeze for speeding away towards the Slytherin huddle where Sasha’s got Kuznetsov in a headlock that looks more like an attempted murder.

 

* * *

 

**Year 4**

 

Nicklas doesn’t trust owls, Care of Magical Creatures in concept or in practice, any snack Kristoffer offers him, and, it turns out, he doesn’t particularly trust Floo powder.

“You just throw it in the fire and step in,” Kristoffer urges impatiently, shaking the little jar of green powder in Nicklas’ face. There are a few issues, the main one being that telling Nicklas to step into a blazing fire is exactly the sort of nonsense Kristoffer would do as a joke. Kristoffer reads the misgivings on Nicklas’ face and rolls his eyes as if he’s never once in his life given Nicklas a reason to question his motives. “ _Fine_ , I’ll go first.”

He tosses the powder in the fire, steps in, and says “ _Lindholm residence!”_

And then he disappears.

Nicklas glances over his own shoulder to where his parents are watching the whole ordeal with raised eyebrows and a general air of bemusement. Three full years of wizarding school and Nicklas still barely trusts magic any more than his own Muggle parents. He grimaces at them, shrugging, and his mother waves, just a little, smiling.

“Be safe,” she says, making a shooing motion as if she’s pushing Nicklas into the fireplace herself.

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, tosses the powder, steps in, and says, “Ovechkin home!” a little louder than maybe strictly necessary.

He’s dizzy by the time he spins to a stop, falling to his knees on the hard hearthstone, his bag sliding down his shoulder and landing with a sad _flump_ at his side. He coughs, and then coughs some more, because oddly enough his allergies don’t seem to be massive fans of traveling through a hundred soot-filled fireplaces.

“Nicke!” It’s the only warning he gets before Sasha’s hauling him up by the armpits, pulling him into the living room and depositing him on a couch. “Mama!” Sasha calls loudly, “Nicke’s here!”

It’s a chaotic, uncomfortable entrance into the Ovechkin house, but Mama Ovechkina is everything Nicklas imagined from Sasha’s stories, and he feels at home in no time at all.

 

* * *

 

Sasha’s bed is soft and the blankets are worn with age, patched in places and thin in others, but almost unbelievably comfortable nonetheless. Nicklas falls asleep running his fingers over a small tear in the duvet, listening to Sasha mumble half-conscious nonsense beside him.

Nicklas wakes in what must be the earliest hours of the morning, the predawn light clean and lonely where it filters through the slit in Sasha’s curtains. Sasha is still snoring one pillow over, mouth dropped wide and arms thrown so haphazardly out from his own body that the fingers of one hand are tangled in Nicklas’ hair. It’s too early to commit to being awake, but every time Nicklas closes his eyes he inevitably cracks an eyelid open to peer again at Sasha, loud and peaceful and still and hectic all at once, somehow.

The articles from earlier in the summer, the ones about Alexander Ovechkin’s big future, his _raw generational talent_ , swirl up in Nicklas’ thoughts, and he almost wants to laugh. What would the sports writers say, Nicklas wonders, if they saw Sasha like this, drooling a little, fingers twitching  fitfully from his dreams?

The captain’s badge is still pinned to his t-shirt where Nicklas stuck it before they went to sleep, and it glints in the thin light with each rise and fall of Sasha’s sleeping chest.

It’s just Sasha, is the thing- all of it. The snoring, the talent, the big heart, the crooked nose, the missing tooth, the joyful outbursts that the _Quidditch Weekly_ writers worry show signs of an _unprofessional_ demeanor that will hold Alexander Ovechkin back in the long run. The Captaincy, because who else would even take it, who else could want it when Sasha’s so... _himself_?

Sasha’s whole body jerks, fingers clenching shut on the bit of Nicklas’ hair he’s been holding hostage all night, and Nicklas watches warily as Sasha’s eyebrows swoop together, teeth gritting like he’s fighting his way to consciousness. He finally relaxes, turns his cheek against his pillow, eyes sliding open slowly, like a chore, and Nicklas is already staring right back, feeling oddly self-conscious. He wants to ask if Sasha had a bad dream but his throat feels too dry to speak, and there’s something unbreakably _still_ about Sasha’s half-lidded eyes, how unbearably blue they seem when he’s just woken up.

Sasha blinks heavily, gaze lazily tracking from Nicklas’ sleep-puffy frozen face to his own hand still buried in Nicklas’ hair. He hums, a sleepy, thoughtless noise, and then closes his eyes, sinking back into unconsciousness like it was nothing.

Which it was, really.

In a way.

 

* * *

 

 

Nicklas has never been terribly interested in Hogsmeade, but he does wake up early the morning Sasha agrees to go with him. He stands in front of his open trunk and actually thinks about what he wants to wear, which is unusual enough in itself that it brings him up short. And then there's the matter of his hair, another thing he doesn't pay much attention to, but _god,_ is it always this tangled mess? So he brushes it. And washes his face. And reties his tie about twelve times.

And he still makes it to the common room before Sasha.

Sasha, who is _insufferable._

Sasha who makes a joke and then keeps it up all the way through the entrance hall, out onto the grounds, even once they’re out the gates and on the winding lane to the village.

“Too bad, Nicke, about Hogsmeade,” he says sadly, shaking his head. “Know you wanted to go, but they say-”

Nicklas finally breaks, burying his face in his hands and laughing. “Shut _up,_ Sasha, we’re literally already here.”

He’s right, of course. They’re standing in front of a pub crammed with students, across the street from a joke shop, a seamstress, a candy store. Nicklas can't stop himself from looking around wide-eyed, taking everything in, and Sasha doesn’t seem to feel much different. He’d only ever gone on one Hogsmeade weekend before he decided to give them up for practice.

And practice does go incredibly well when they get back that night, because Nicklas is always right. He even makes Sasha say it to the whole team, twice, because it doesn't count if he's laughing while he says it.

 

* * *

 

  
**Year 5**

Sasha’s birthday doesn't take a lot of planning, but it does require a bit of introspection on Nicklas’ part.

“It's very _involved_ ,” is Marcus’ opinion, and Nicklas doesn't bother to ask what he means.

There's no one else Nicklas would go through this trouble for. No one makes him angrier than Sasha, but no one makes him laugh harder. There's no one else whose opinion Nicklas cares about half as much, no one else for whom he’d stand in front of a mirror fiddling with his hair, awkwardly straightening his tie- as if Sasha would ever notice or care.

Nicklas knows what it all means. He doesn't need Marcus to gently (or occasionally otherwise) hint at it; Nicklas knows, and there's nothing he could or would do to change it now.

“Yes,” Nicklas says, waving a hand airily to brush aside the concern in Marcus’ voice, “but do you think he'll like it?”

 

* * *

 

**Year 6**

 

He’s gotten used to spending the end of the summer with the Ovechkin family, so it feels strange to be stuck in his Gävle bedroom as August rolls to a close.

He doesn’t hear from Sasha, but it’s not as if he really needs to when every step of Sasha and Malkin’s grand tour of the AQL is photographed and reported on in _Quidditch Weekly_. The _QW_ reporters seem a little bitter (something about the two Russian rookies spitting in the face of the British league and even their own Kontinental League in favor of the glitz and glamour of America, or something), but that doesn’t stop them from filling at least a page a week with rumored contract negotiations and pitch visits.

Even though Sasha and Malkin are rarely in the same city at the same time, the columnists can’t seem to stop themselves from providing a bit of scathing commentary- why is Ovechkin said to be getting just as many offers as Malkin if he hasn’t got a single trophy to show for his time at school, if he didn’t grow up playing, if he’s so over the top-

Nicklas irritably tosses the magazine over the edge of his bed, letting it fall in a pile with the other discarded garbage he’s accumulated over the summer. His temples throb and he winces, laying back on his bed and shoving the heels of his hands into his eyes.

It’s not like anyone enjoys losing.

For Sasha, defeat turns him briefly hopeless, uncharacteristically miserable. It shrinks him for a while, traps him. That’s the thing, Nicklas has learned through observation, about wearing your heart on your sleeve: everyone gets to take a swipe at it, and given the slightest chance, they _will._

Nicklas doesn’t have the same trouble. Losing doesn’t necessarily make him sad, or introspective, or any more withdrawn than usual.

It just pisses him off.

He groans, head aching, body sore from training, stomach grumbling even though he ate barely half an hour ago.

If Nicklas has to drag the Slytherin team kicking and screaming to the Quidditch Cup this year, he’ll do it. He’s tired of losing, tired of watching all of them lose when they don’t deserve it, when they’ve worked their asses off year after year.

And if winning comes with the added bonus of giving a few of the _Quidditch Weekl_ _y_ writers something to shove up their asses, so be it.

This is going to be their year, because it has to be, because he won’t let it be anything else. Nicklas Backstrom hates losing, is the thing, and he’s done enough of it for the time being, thanks very fucking much.

 


End file.
